Hope is the thing with feathers, said Emily Dickinson, and while it certainly created a line that would live for decades, I have realized my hope arrives every year in far more pedestrian form, say buck teeth and a fat backside.
January is a month where I dream of the tropics, and hang on till the end. If it wasn't for my sister and Dr. King, I'd say there isn't a bright spot in the entire freaking lunar cycle.
But on February 2nd, every year I feel hope rising. I know the tradition is stupid and pagan, and Phil almost never predicts correctly. But for some incredible reason, on Groundhog Day life may look cold and bleak, but I know the world really is turning on its axis. And with just a few more spins it will resume its bow to the sun and I will once again feel the kiss of the heavens on my cheek instead of a dope slap on the back of my head when I leave the house.